


pray for the thunder and the rain

by escherzo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're soldiers in the trenches, seeking proof of life; they're teenage and desperate, driven mad by the dry summer heat; they're two people and one person all at once, and so how could this end any other way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	pray for the thunder and the rain

_Sandy Gulch, California_  
  
Even the air is hot enough to burn.   
  
Dean is covered in sweat. He's drowning in it. Two more weeks in this town, if the job goes well, and maybe he won't boil in his own skin by then. A hundred degrees easy, air dry as bone and sun beating down hard and punishing, and Dean thinks of being fourteen again, of lush lakes and trees old as the earth, perfect for climbing.   
  
This place isn't anything like that.  _Unincorporated community_ , Sam said when they got here, and it sounded a lot like  _Hell on earth_  coming out of the kid's mouth. Sam hates it. 'Course he does. Dean doesn't mind, so much, just wishes it wasn't so fucking hot.   
  
He takes another swig of beer and stretches out, bare feet pushing up mounds of dust-dry dirt. Spits, just to see it bounce off the ground. If it ever rained—it probably won't, won't be the rainy season until September and by then they'll be out of here—it'd be like watching a hailstorm. He sleeps light, had that trained into him early, but around here he wakes at the slightest sound, ready to pack Sam into the car and get out at the first hint of smoke in the air. Nothing but flammable brush and evergreens up here, close to the mountains but not quite there, and the needles are so brittle they'll fall with just a touch.   
  
One last swallow of beer left, and he downs it quick, sets it down on the step next to him and fumbles for the pack of reds and the lighter in his shorts. Stupid, with this much risk of fire. A lot of his life involves stunts that would be really fucking stupid if he wasn't careful. This is no different.   
  
He takes a long drag and makes sure to ash in the empty can.   
  
When Sam catches him, he's probably going to get pissed, Dean knows, but he's got a comfortable buzz going and so he doesn't really give a shit. Last time, he said, “Not like I'm going to live long enough to get lung cancer, Sammy,” and yeah, the punch that came afterwards was deserved. It's still true. They both know it, but Sam's fifteen and so he's still trying to hold on to the conviction that Dean's immortal, untouchable by God and man. Once he gets a few more hunts under his belt, he'll change his tune.   
  
Nineteen and already ready to die for the cause. Good little soldier. He shakes his head, smiles ruefully at himself, lets the world blur in one exhaled breath of smoke. It's alright. There are worse things than being a freak.   
  
That's mostly why he likes this place, actually. By the local standards, he's almost a normal teenager. It's wild country, and when things go bump in the night Dean's not the only one reaching for a gun. Weres, spirits—all he'd have to tell them would be, “Using the wrong bullets, here,” and they'd take 'em down in a minute flat. The neighbor's kid wasn't much older than Dean when he learned how to shoot. He's surrounded by hunters, and yeah, they're the wrong kind, but it's easy camaraderie all the same, reminds him of Dad recounting war stories at the kind of bar where everyone has their own to tell.   
  
For an old mining area, it's been pretty spirit-free, actually. Biggest risk around here is mountain lions. Dean's faced up to a lot so far in his short life but he's not looking forward to the day he comes across one; they're fucking huge, tracks as big as dinner plates. He and Sam have to go everywhere together, take along a gun whenever they go past the yard, just in case--doesn't seem right to survive supernatural evil only to be eaten by the local wildlife.   
  
The screen door opens and shuts with a bang, and Dean doesn't bother turning around, too busy appreciating the sudden rush of air at his back. “Hey, Sammy,” he says. “Brought me a popsicle?”   
  
“You wish.” Sam moves the can-ashtray with a disgusted noise and settles down onto the step beside him. It creaks under his weight. “We ran out this morning. And it's Sam, I keep telling you.”   
  
Dean mutters a curse, careful to turn his head away from Sam when he exhales smoke again. Sam's been shooting up like a weed this summer, so fast Dean barely recognizes him sometimes. He's all feet and hands and awkward, too-skinny long limbs, and Dean doesn't know who the hell the kid he shares a bed with is, but it sure as shit isn't his tiny Sammy. Little Sammy wouldn't dare try and get as tall as him.  
  
Sam, on the other hand, is putting in a good effort.  
  
“Can I have a beer?” No goddamn preamble, and Dean takes a moment to blink at him. Yeah, he's gotten Sam drunk before, but that was different, that was Sam up late after the kid got rejected by some girl, a perfect drown-your-sorrows moment. Maybe once or twice after that, too, but that was Dean offering, not Sam asking. This is a new one.  
  
“...Yeah, sure.” Sam's a little young to be picking up the alcoholic side of being a Winchester, but what the hell, it's only a beer. Dean started with more, started younger. He's kept Sam as innocent as he could, tried to delay the inevitable slide into adulthood, but one look at the lengthening face, the bare chest that's starting to broaden, the baby fat that melts away more every day, and he has to admit that maybe his kid brother isn't such a kid anymore.   
  
The way he looks at Dean these days—that isn't something a kid does either. That look in his eyes burns deep in Dean, the kind of heat even this long, dry summer can't rival.   
  
It's kind of comforting, in a way. They're surrounded by people who know what it's like to grow up on the wrong side of poor, who understand the kickback of a gun and the rush of a good hunt, who arm themselves against a world they know isn't safe. They've still found a way to be freaks by comparison.   
  
Some things never change.   
  
Nothing's happened yet, of course. Dean won't make the first move; there are a number of words for people who put the moves on their little brothers and they're all a little too ugly for his taste. Sure, he wants to. He's got a set of eyes and they work just fine. It's not about him, though. Sam's pretty fucking hung up on being normal, and maybe looking's still on the right side of normal in Sam's book but he's willing to bet messing around isn't.  
  
Honestly, the kid probably just needs to get laid. Problem is, around here he's just about the only one on the menu.   
  
He gives Sam a slow, appraising look out of the corner of his eye, taking in bare skin and muscle, the sharp points of hipbones, the sweat that clings to skin and gives it a bit of shine. His mouth quirks into a half-smile, all lazy heat. Doesn't mean much, really. It's just fun to make Sam squirm, and squirm he does. He's tripping over himself trying to get up and go inside, but Dean doesn't miss the darkened eyes or the flush on his cheeks, the dazed lust written all over his face.  
  
“You okay there, kiddo?” Dean asks, grinning. Hell yeah, he wants to, and even if Sam never goes for it, he's still got one more way to fuck with his brother. It's twenty different kinds of awesome.  
  
“Fine,” Sam says, and his voice cracks.  
  
Yeah.  _Awesome_.   
  


  
  
It's a good thing they're used to living half on top of each other. There are a few houses on this long stretch of gravel that passes for a street, but rent's cheap in the tiny trailer so it's what they've got. Three rooms, kitchen smashed into living room with one cubbyhole of a bedroom and an even smaller bathroom tacked on. Good enough, though. It's better than a motel room.   
  
Sam thinks his standards are abysmal. He's probably right. One time when Dean was seven, they stayed in a tiny motel room in Florida, all peeling wallpaper and water stains, and Dean spent a fun couple of days trying to catch cockroaches. He figured they were evil. “They can live through anything, Daddy,” he said solemnly, holding one up for inspection. “I'm gonna make sure they don't get Sammy.”   
  
“They're just survivors, kiddo,” Dad said, trying and failing to hold in laughter. “But you go ahead and keep them away from Sammy.”   
  
“Okay,” he said, keeping his fingers clasped around the one he'd found.   
  
Armed with a jar and two peanut butter crackers, he'd taken to the job like it was his only duty in life, peering into every nook and cranny the room had to offer. He was halfway under the bed when Sammy started tugging on the leg of his jeans.   
  
“Deaaan, play with me,” Sammy whined, sticking his head under the bed to see what wonders it had to offer. “C'mon.”   
  
“I'm keeping you safe from the roaches, Sammy,” Dean told him. “They're gross and they never die and if I don't they might eat you up. Look, I caught one!” He held up the jar triumphantly. Sammy squealed and ran to hide in the bathroom.  
  
It's one of his fonder memories, actually. That probably says something deeply and profoundly sad about his life, but he'd rather have fucked up standards than angst all the time, so whatever. He can enjoy a shitty motel room full of roaches, and so he can find the good in just about anywhere. And this place, in comparison, might as well be a palace.   
  
Sam's taken to the place like water on oil, of course. He used to be easier, used to just accept the shitholes they made do with because it was the only life he'd ever known. Seen a few too many nice places since, and somewhere along the line he developed standards.   
  
Dean makes himself like most places, because if even he can't manage it, how the hell is he gonna convince Sam to? And if he can't convince Sam—well, Sam's getting older. Pretty soon he's gonna have options that aren't this. Dean's got an unshakable sense of duty--it's a bitch and a half and rarely helps but he's never been able to switch it off--so he makes do. Sam didn't pick that up the same way he did.   
  
It's alright, though. He'll show Sam all the highlights of this life, make the next few years golden, and Sam will get it. He'll stick around.   
  
“You gonna make food?” Sam asks. He's standing in the kitchen, beer in hand, shirtless and lazy. So skinny these days, his body growing too fast to give him time to eat enough and make up the difference.   
  
Dean doesn't say  _I'm not your mother_ , though some ugly part of him always wants to at moments like these. For all intents and purposes, he might as well be, is the thing. He raised Sam every bit as much as Dad did. It wasn't Dad's fault; he had a job to do and so all the other jobs fell to Dean simply because there was nobody else. Dean doesn't fault him for it.   
  
Still, the point stands.  
  
If Freud wasn't dead, he'd probably jizz in his pants just thinking about the Winchesters. Dean chuckles at the thought and steals Sam's beer right out of his hand.   
  
“Later,” he promises.   
  


  
  
_Thunk._    
  
Dean takes a deep breath and relaxes his stance, surveying the still-quivering knife buried in knotted pine. Not bad. A little lower than he was going for, though. No wind to blame it on, so he's just gotta own up to the mistake and give it another go. First time he tried throwing knives, years back, he sent one flying way past the target and into the woods beyond. At least one squirrel went home that day fearing for its life and cursing the name of Dean Winchester.   
  
He's gotten better since, but it's still not really his thing. He knows guns like he knows the sight of his own blood, like he's got gunpowder running through his veins, and with a name like Winchester, that's only natural. Knives—knives are more Sam's thing.  
  
Sam's the reason he's out here. Still asleep, and he sleeps like a fucking log most days but even he can't sleep through the sound of gunshots, so Dean's out in the midmorning sun destroying the trees instead of popping holes into old beer cans. It's pretty relaxing, actually. No real noise, no one watching him, just sun and sky and sharp blades that hurtle through the air like they were only made to fly.   
  
Random acts of violence to let off steam: the story of his teenage life. It scares the hell out of normal people, but if he went and enlisted he'd find people like him, he's pretty sure. He's a soldier. It's what he does. Not his fault that most people overlook his war.   
  
Sometimes, when it's just him and Sam and a motel with free cable, he stays up late watching old war movies and daydreaming. He and Sam are brothers in arms, together in the trenches with nothing but their guns and their wits against the enemy, and they've got a brilliant commanding officer, the kind of guy who will never steer them wrong. They're bringing good to the world. This war, the war in Dean's head, is one that nobody can overlook, and when they come home they're clapped on the back, treated to drinks, loved by all the girls, because they're  _heroes_ , and in this war, everybody knows it.   
  
He's never told Dad. The guy hates war movies, and he'd either tell Dean he's already a hero or lecture the hell out of him.   
  
A hero that nobody knows about, though—that makes a pretty shitty movie.   
  
 _Thunk._  
  
Dean completely fucks up the next throw, startled by the sudden sound of tires on gravel. Not Dad, not yet; they've got a while yet before he gets back. An old pickup instead, starting to rust around the edges but still well-loved, cherry-red. There's a deer in back. The spoils of hunting, or of roadkill—with how tame the damn things are around here, it could be either one just as easy.   
  
He used to kind of like deer. Didn't see the point in hunting them, at least—they were harmless, stupid, and made hissing sounds sometimes but weren't  _evil_. The first time he took Sam out driving, though, one jumped out right in front of them and Sam nearly ran them off the road trying to escape. A little further to the right and the Impala would have gone headfirst into a tree.   
  
These days, he enjoys venison a lot. Maybe too much, but they're a threat to Sam, and so they move into the category of things that should be killed. Simple as that.  
  
He'd kill just about anything for threatening his family. Maybe any _one_. He doesn't know where the limit is there—just hopes there is one.   
  
The other houses on this street have fences and big, snarling guard dogs to ward off the outside world. Them? They don't need a guard dog. Dean's got that job down just fine. He'd tear apart an intruder with bare hands and teeth if he had to, if it meant keeping Sam safe, because Sam is  _his_.   
  
He tugs the knife free again and steps back, gets into the stance, ignoring the heat, the sweat sliding down his back. This time, he'll get it right.   
  
 _Thunk._    
  


  
  
The first time he thought about Sam like  _that_ , he was seventeen. Just a fleeting thought—imagining Sam all grown, hot and powerful and muscled all to hell. He was drunk, probably too drunk, and Sam was just  _there_ , and then he smiled at Dean, all chubby cheeks and dimples.   
  
Dean threw up for an hour afterwards.   
  
He's questioned himself before, sure. Usually at the tail-end of a bottle, thoughts fuzzed all to hell, contemplating violence and the nomadic life and the long trail of girls he's left behind. Still, he considers himself basically good. He's a good person, he brings good to the world. Simple fact.   
  
The only times he's questioned  _that_ , it's been because of Sam. Waking up from dreams at eighteen, breath coming too fast, getting out of bed as quietly as he could to jerk off in the shower. Eyes closed against the spray, one hand clenched against the wall, wondering what the fuck was wrong with him, that he could be thinking of his baby brother like that.   
  
And then Sam started looking, too. Dean doesn't remember exactly when that started, doesn't really want to know, but somehow that made the whole mess okay. If Sam wanted it, then it was okay. It was just something Dean could give him, could do for him, a new way to help him out. It wasn't a big deal.   
  
Dean's a good person. He doesn't let himself question that so much, anymore.   
  


  
  
The night sky is so clear here. In the cities, the stars are hidden under smog, dimmed by streetlights, almost impossible to make out. Here, they're crystal-clear, set bright against the jet black of the sky. They stretch out in every direction. No towns big enough to obscure them, no cities at all, and clouds are just a distant memory in this endless dry land.   
  
Sam and Dean sprawl out together on the hard dirt, side by side, just watching. There's a bottle of beer tucked into the crook of Dean's arm, half-full, half a dozen more empty ones littered around them. He'd offer more to Sam, but Sam's starting to slur his words—no tolerance at all, figures—and so it's time to stop. He's at the perfect stage of drunk, lazy-limbed and contented, and when he lifts an arm to point out a plane going by it lists to the side. It's hilarious to him, for no reason he can figure.   
  
“How come it's called the Big Dipper, anyway?” Sam asks, looking over to grin at him. “Who calls it a dipper?”  
  
“You're fuckin' random when you're drunk, you know that?” Dean grins back. Sam's cheeks are flushed. It's really a good look for him. “I dunno. Can't call it the big ladle, that sounds stupid.”   
  
“The big ladle,” Sam repeats, and his grin gets a little wider. He snickers at himself. “S'just a big spoon.”   
  
“The Big Spoon,” Dean says, taking another drink. “Spoons all the other stars in the sky. That's beautiful, Sammy. Beautiful.”   
  
They lapse into comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the night. The cicadas are making a racket, as always, and somewhere in the distance Dean thinks he can hear an owl, but that's about it. Reminds him of a ghost story he once heard, a spirit that killed anyone who stayed in its cabin. The local villagers set fire to the place, and it escaped by becoming an owl and flying off into the night. Pretty fuckin' stupid, really. Ghosts can't possess owls or become them, at least as far as he knows, and it's just like him to be trying to get some realism into stories like that.   
  
“One time I went to this bonfire,” he says. Sam shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at his brother.   
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“With a bunch of kids in my class,” Dean continues, and there's really no point to this story, but drunk logic dictates that it's worth telling anyway. “I was trying to—I dunno, see what the big deal was, I guess, and there was this girl there. Anyway, they told ghost stories. Just a bunch of kids sitting around this huge fire trying to scare the shit out of each other, and I kept thinking, 'man, if you only knew.' 'Cause the whole point, right, the whole point's that they're just stories.”   
  
“You tell any?” Sam brushes hair out of his eyes and reaches for the bottle. Dean lets him, because stopping him really takes too much effort.   
  
“Nah.” He grins. “What was I gonna say? 'Yeah, so you guys know that abandoned house? There was a spirit in there, and that's why I've got a broken wrist this week. Yeah, I fight 'em, just got too careless with this one and it kicked my ass.' They'd just think I was crazy.”   
  
“Our lives are pretty crazy, Dean,” Sam says, undertone of bitterness all too clear.   
  
“It's not so bad.” He can't think of anything else to say, can't hold onto thoughts long enough to get a good protest going.  
  
“I guess.” Sam says quietly. “Just might be nice to be able to go to a bonfire and tell ghost stories and not know they're more than just stories.”   
  
“We're safer because we know, you know that.”  
  
“Yeah, but is it worth it?”   
  
“'Course it is. Come on, man, there are so many people who wouldn't be around if we hadn't saved 'em. We're heroes, the real kind of heroes. Don't get all moody and philo—philoslo--thinky on me here.” He waves a hand to illustrate his point, and it makes his wrist feel kind of funny.   
  
Dean can barely remember life before this one, just the dim memories of a toddler to hold onto, snapshots of what could have been but never will be, now. It's easier to let that fade out, easier to let it be replaced by life on the road, the kind of crazy, restless existence he only sees in movies. He's been in every state but two, now, seen cities and ghost towns and mountains and endless, perfect plains. He's seen the worst of people and the best. He knows the look in a person's eyes when they see the end coming and make it out the other side. He knows exactly what lurks in the dark and he knows how to save the world, one life at a time. He knows so much, and he's still only nineteen, a few more good years ahead of him.   
  
Yeah, life is crazy, but sometimes it's the good kind.  
  
“Yeah, you're a real hero,” Sam says, and his smile is playful. “Dean Winchester, part-time gas station attendant in Bummerville, hero on the off-days.”   
  
“Fuckin' Bummerville,” Dean says, shaking his head. Doesn't even sound like a real place, and he and Sam have been making stupid jokes about it for weeks now. “It's not always gonna be like that, though,” he adds, giving Sam a look. “Someday it's just gonna be the three of us on the road, and we won't have to stop anywhere we don't want to. We can go anywhere. Anywhere at all, Sam, just you, me, Dad, and the open road. No more school, no more waiting around.”   
  
“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “Yeah, I know. When's he getting back?”   
  
“Dad? 'Bout a week, I think.” One more week of this scorched place and they'll be on the road again. Dean's gonna miss it, a little. Sam's probably got a countdown going. He chews on his lower lip, imagining Sam with a little calendar and a red pen, x-ing off days. In his head, the last day has a little smiley face on it.   
  
“Hey, Dean.”   
  
“Yeah?” Dean looks over. Sam's eyes are fixed on his lips. It makes him smile.   
  
“... Nevermind,” Sam says after a too-long pause. He ducks his head, cheeks flushed by more than alcohol.   
  
“Sam,” Dean says gently. “Anytime you want, okay?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Too young to be going deaf, dude.” Dean reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair. “It's okay. It is. Anytime you want.”   
  
Sam blinks at him, mouth hanging open slightly. He looks like a beached fish, and Dean wants to laugh, wants to tease him about it, but there's a time and place for that and this isn't it.   
  
“Okay,” Sam says finally.   
  


  
  
It's an hour shy of dawn when Dean wakes. The trailer is pitch-black and silent, Sam a heavy weight against his back, and heat is already beginning to creep in, turning the air stale.   
  
Sam isn't asleep. When he sleeps, he's all quiet snuffling sounds and restless limbs, squirming and dragging the sheets off and onto the floor. Sam's breathing is even and deep, but he's perfectly still against Dean, holding himself rigid.   
  
“Sam?” Dean asks, and it sounds too loud in the silence. He rolls over, sheets whispering underneath him, and Sam's gaze roams all over him, eating him up.   
  
“It's okay, right?” Sam asks, and he reaches out a hesitant hand. His fingers cup Dean's jaw and he stares, licks his lips, brushes his thumb over the swell of Dean's lips when Dean doesn't move to pull away. Dean couldn't pull away, not for anything. His heart is hammering and his brain is still fuzzed from sleep and Sam's got a hand on him. Maybe he's still dreaming. A fever dream, a delusion,  _something_ , because in the three days since he and Sam got drunk under the stars, all Sam's done is look. Maybe his hand lingered on Dean's shoulder a moment longer than usual, maybe he bumped up against his brother more, maybe—but it wasn't like this. Dean wasn't sure Sam would ever actually do this. He can't speak. All he can do is nod.   
  
“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, voice raw and shaky. He lets his thumb swipe slow across Dean's lower lip, and time slows to a crawl. This glacial moment, inevitable and painfully real, completely inescapable. Sam leans in, closing his eyes, and Dean can't even fucking breathe, no air left to take in. They were always gonna end up like this. Dean knew it, maybe Sam did too. They're soldiers in the trenches, seeking proof of life; they're teenage and desperate, driven mad by the dry summer heat; they're two people and one person all at once, and so how could this end any other way?   
  
Sam kisses him, and it hits him low like a punch to the gut. No take-backs now, no way either of them are backing out anyway, and Sam's lips on his are burning, sparking through him. Lips and teeth and Sam's mouth open against his and fuck, they're not close enough. He grips Sam tight, draws him in, kissing him slow and dirty until Sam is panting against his mouth, hips shifting against him. It feels less real, here in the dark. Easier, somehow, easier because he can barely see Sam's face. Soft sounds breaking the quiet, and fuck, that's  _Sam_  he's hearing, that's Sam making those tiny, hitched noises as he pulls Dean flush against him.   
  
Dean isn't even sure he knows which way is up anymore. He can't think. Doesn't want to, really; better to just go with it, try and ride out the sick feeling he's starting to get. This is okay. Sam wants this. Sam really fucking wants this, holy shit. He's hard against Dean, one leg over Dean's hips, and they're rocking together, maddening friction that's driving him slowly out of his mind. He gets a hand on Sam's hip, pulls him in harder, and Sam closes his eyes, tips his head back, groans low in his throat. Dean's eyes are starting to adjust to the light; he can see the shine of sweat on Sam's neck, and he bends down to lick it away. Sam shivers against him, holding on tight enough to bruise.   
  
The air is stale and burning hot and Dean's mouth is so, so dry. He feels like he's been set on fire, like Sam lit him up with a match, and it's all way too much. He wants to touch. Wants to get his hands on Sam, tug down his boxers and slide his hand inside, wants it with the kind of intensity he never lets himself feel about anything.   
  
He gets a hand in between them, feeling Sam through damp cotton, and Sam squirms, pressing himself harder against Dean's hand, desperate for friction. Fuck, Sam's not gonna last. He isn't either. Sam isn't even touching him but he can feel the blood roaring in his ears, his heart thudding so hard he's almost sick with it, and it's like his first time all over again, nervous and desperate and racing to the finish line so fast the world spins.   
  
“Dean, c'mon,  _please_ ,” Sam chokes out, and when Dean shifts, pressing against him harder, Sam actually whimpers. His mouth finds Dean's in a sloppy, desperate kiss, and he stiffens, his whole body tensed up. Chokes out Dean's name, turning one syllable into a drawn-out three, and Dean can feel Sam come, feel spreading warmth against his hand, and Dean is way too stunned to process it. He closes his eyes, gives in to the rush inside him, presses forward against Sam and the back of his own hand and loses it. Sam's still trembling against him when he comes down.   
  
“Holy shit,” he says. It's the only thing he can even think of to say. Sam just looks at him and laughs, dips his head to press a kiss to Dean's shoulder.   
  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Pretty much.”   
  
Dean's hand is still pressed between them. He dips his fingers under Sam's waistband and Sam's eyes are wide and stunned still, but he lets him. He's not even sure what the hell he's doing. Looking for hands-on proof, or something, and Sam's too sensitive to do anything but shift away with Dean's hand in his shorts, but—fuck. He's got Sam's come on his hand now, and he kinda wants to taste it. It probably makes him a sick fuck, but he just got Sam off so he's got a little leeway for now.   
  
He licks a finger experimentally, and Sam stares.   
  
“Uh,” Sam says weakly, “unless you wanna go again you should probably stop doing that.”   
  
He doesn't stop. He's relieved as all hell that he can still tease Sam, screw with him a little, that maybe he hasn't fucked up the best damn thing in his life by doing this. The grin breaking out on his face can't be helped.   
  
Sam tackles him to the mattress.   
  


  
  
Back when Dean was in elementary school, he spent hours drawing with markers. He wasn't very good at drawing, but there was something to it. Markers got  _everywhere_. Better than pencil any day, almost as good as finger paint. Being able to look down and see the multicolored, smudged mess his hands became was the best part. Hell, it was the main reason he liked it. It made him feel like he'd accomplished something.  
  
Over the years, that graduated to other things—machine grease, grave dirt, gun oil. Same basic concept, though. He'd get himself covered in smudges and grime and then go check himself out--yup, covered in it, proof he'd gotten shit done in a really entertaining and hands-on kind of way.   
  
When he wakes up and his fingers are still tacky with the remnants of Sam's come, he thinks it's kinda like that. Rubs them against each other, plays with the feel of it, grins like crazy. Not a dream. Definitely not a dream.   
  
He thinks of halves, of puzzle pieces locking together, and knows this isn't something he's going to regret.   
  


  
  
Three days later, they leave Calaveras County behind.   
  
The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, and the world glows with it, peaceful and silent. Dad's driving, keeping the music low because Sam is asleep in the backseat, wrapped up in a blanket with his head pillowed on Dean's duffel. Dean relaxes into the passenger seat, hands wrapped around a stained mug full of coffee. He's so damn tired he can't think, but that's alright. He doesn't have to think yet.   
  
The hunt went well—one clip of silver bullets down, one town with a lot less mysterious deaths in its near future. Dad's got a long gash running down his cheek but no other injuries Dean can see, and for them, that's nearly a miracle. No talking yet; it's still too early. They let the silence hang easy between them, and Dean watches the trailer fade away into the distance, watches the sun rise over the trees and knows this won't be a place he'll forget, not ever. Dry as bone and ready to catch fire at the slightest spark and so quiet, so isolated that it felt like he and Sam were a world apart from civilization, able to do anything: a memory-making kind of place for sure.   
  
Highway lines blur into the distance and he closes his eyes, feeling the rumble of the road beneath him. They'll drive all day, maybe into the night, and then the three of them will settle somewhere else. It'll be long days of training and long nights in graveyards, back alleys, thick green forests full of ancient evil, the thousands of places that make up the endless hunt. He and Sam will share a bed again, or at least a room, and when Dad leaves they'll fall together again, naked and breathless under shared sheets. It'll be perfect. As long as he's got the two of them, as long as it's three against the world, this life will be the best damn happiness he knows.   
  
Dean lets himself drift back into sleep, and when he wakes, it's all dry land and mountains, but the sky above them is a deep gray, full of promised storms. They speed forward, fast enough that the car shakes, heading straight into the dark. Rain begins to fall on the windshield, the first rain Dean's seen in a month, and Dad turns the music up, pedal to the floor, pushing the car faster, faster.   
  
The world blurs past and Dean turns around to shake Sam awake, smiling at him.   
  
“Hey, Sammy, c'mon. It's raining. It's raining, look.”   
  
“Yeah,” Sam says, breathless and wondering. The first low rumble of thunder shakes through their bones and off in the distance, the darkness is broken by a flash of lightning.   
  
Dean gets Sam to count the time between, like they used to, and Dad shakes his head at the two of them, smiling a little.  _Us against the world_ , Dean thinks, and the three of them race towards the storm. No slowing down, no room for hesitation in a life like this.   
  
He lets out a whoop of laughter and hangs on for the ride.


End file.
